Not-to-Be-Missed Shouts of 2014

Comedy has been a major part of The New Yorker from the very start; when the first issue was scuttled off the presses, in 1925, it was billed as a humor magazine. A column beneath the heading “Shouts & Murmurs” débuted in 1929—a venue for Alexander Woollcott’s incisive sendups of contemporary society. Since the early nineties, comedic fiction has appeared nearly every week under that rubric; for two years now, newyorker.com has also featured Daily Shouts, most every day, including some bank holidays. Which is all to say that there are a lot of jokes being churned out by our writers. Here’s a selection from the Shouts Department’s past twelve months, in print and on the Web.

Planned events for the summer include a book signing with Bill O’Reilly, iconography workshops at the United States Mint, Bible study with Rev. Joel Osteen on the Eighteen Undiscovered Gospels, and a Q. & A. with Tupac. Plus, guided hand-gesture tutorials, cancer vaccine clinics, and—back by popular demand—a tour of BuzzFeed.

He sank down to the kitchen floor. And I could tell he was feeling a ton of sexy burdens. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed and stared up at the ceiling. He clenched his jaw. He twisted a bandana in his manly hands. He punched a hole through my cabinets. “Please don’t do that,” I said.

In fact, it might be that Millennials are driving this trend, because they are selfish and entitled. It is probably because we are getting married later, and women are making more money, and because of the recession. Rent, we all agree, is far too high.

When they looked at your employment history, noting the various part-time jobs and internships you thought it would be a good idea to include, they were almost in tears. I mean, come on—you like playing racquetball and you list “social media” as a skill? What does that even mean? You know what Twitter is and you own those weird-looking goggles? Somebody give this man a job!

One night, while simultaneously drinking and bathing in a vat of coconut oil, I opened my eyes. What do you think happened? Coconut oil got in my eyes? Yes. Was it extremely painful? Yes, again. Did it also make my vision superhuman? You nailed it.

Student-produced-response math. You have one remaining pair of clean underwear, besides the pair you are currently wearing. You have an additional pair of underwear that doesn’t cover your entire butt and says “Thursday.” How many days can you go without doing laundry?

It might interest you to know, by the way, that just yesterday I received an e-mail that offered to put me in contact with “beautiful women from an exotic land looking for love.” Does that sound like someone who is ready for a walk-in bathtub?

I heard a voice telling me, “Eleanor, go ye forth and tell of the Lord’s wonders, using pipe cleaners, Popsicle sticks, and enormous Day-Glo crêpe-paper sunflowers with plastic googly eyes and refrigerator-magnet grins.” By the very next day, I had crafted a miniature replica of the Last Supper, entirely out of those tiny Jet-Puffed marshmallows, empty bottles of mini-bar vodka, and human hair.

Last night, under the cover of darkness, Pa went out to buy some kale leaves from a darty-eyed man on a street corner. But, when Pa returned home, his high-priced purchase turned out to be a ziplock baggy full of chard.

DROP BY MY HOUSE! I love it when readers swing by and say hello and introduce themselves: 554 Ruby Lane, Sacramento, CA 95831. I feel so blessed when someone cares enough to invade my personal space! Dinnertime works fine. Middle of the night, also perfect.

He says to Ted, in this thick Russian accent, “You make me shame. You make all of science shame. This day will haunt me always. ” And he starts to weep. And then Ted turns to me and says, “Will you marry me?” And I’m, like, “No.” After he was sentenced, I started dating Milo. He proposed on a camping trip. It was O.K.